


Muted Voices

by EvaBelmort



Category: Cain Saga and Godchild
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-29
Updated: 2010-07-29
Packaged: 2017-10-10 20:37:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/104016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EvaBelmort/pseuds/EvaBelmort
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>"I saw your sister last month," Crehador said quietly</em><br/>Warnings: Major spoilers for the end of the series. Um. Probably.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Muted Voices

**Author's Note:**

> Song/Theme: Alela Diane - "Take Us Back"  
> Originally posted on [oddible](http://oddible.dreamwidth.org) for September, 2009.

  
The wind whispered softly around Crehador's ankles as he made his way up the path to the tiny cottage; it was late autumn, and the day was fast fading as he reached the door. He knocked, and after a moment a light flared within, and Cain opened the door for him, holding his old oil lamp. Eerie gold-flecked green eyes stared at him, then Cain stepped back and allowed him in. He set the lamp on the small table, flicked long white fingers in the direction of one of the chairs, then padded off into the kitchen. Crehador put down his bag and settled gratefully into the seat beside the fireplace, the low-banked fire easing the chill of the room, and listened to the sounds of Cain in the next room. Eventually Cain came back, set a teapot and cups on the table, and poured for them both. Crehador took up his cup, and sipped the tea with pleasure; Cain had come a long way from the arrogant youth who couldn't tie his own shoelaces.  
"I saw your sister last month," Crehador said quietly, "She's growing up to be quite the beauty; that poor Oscar is completely besotted. "  
"Mmmm. That's good," Cain replied, "I thought that would work out. She's strong, Merry, and she had become quite fond of the man."  
"And what about him?"  
"He needed someone he could protect, someone who could return his love, and someone..." he trailed off, staring over Crehador's shoulder.  
"Someone strong?" Crehador suggested, smiling a little.  
"If you like." The smile he received in return was a little wry. "I would have said, someone who wasn't afraid to shout at him. They are both a little stubborn, but deeply kind."  
Crehador sighed, and caught Cain's eye. "You could go to see them yourself. You miss her, and we both know she would be delighted, no matter what excuse you gave for your absence. Don't you grow weary of your own company?"  
"It would only cause trouble," Cain replied, a little wistfully, "and I prefer not to tempt fate too often; she is fortunate to have survived my cursed family at all. Besides," he went on, touching the cross that hung at his throat, "I am never lonely."  
"Just to see her, then? To be certain that they were happy. Even if you never let them know you were there."  
Cain's smile this time was dreamy and vague. "But I know that they are happy. I have always been keeping watch over Merry; what sort of brother would I be if I did not?"  
His guest shivered slightly, turned toward the fire. "Did I tell you that I visited India, last year?"  
"Really?" Cain's eyes refocussed, lighting with interest. "Is it true that they have men who can charm poisonous snakes with music?"  
They spent the night in pleasant conversation, familiar and comfortable. Crehador spoke of his travels, of far-away places Cain had never seen, while Cain told him sweetly vicious tales of upper-class eccentricity. When the sky outside started to lighten, Crehador slid carefully to his feet, stretching out muscles grown stiff over the long night. Cain uncurled from the rug, and gently set down the skull he'd been cradling, padding over to open the door once again. Crehador picked up his bag, settled it onto his shoulder, and walked out the door. He turned back to wave, once, as the door closed, and then set off into the dimly lit morning. The mist was very thick here, and he had to be careful to stay on the path; if he turned back again he knew the cottage would have been completely obscured. Once the sun came up over the hill, though, it would burn away like fragments of a half-remembered dream.  



End file.
